She looked forward to those days when the beer was delivered. There was always the excitement of seeing what was in the box; and it was while she was so distressed about Bessie and Jacques that she received the letter from Babington.

It was in cipher of course, and it was necessary for one of the secretaries to decipher it. This duty fell to Gilbert Curle who, when he brought it to her, was very agitated. He handed it to her and she read it, catching her breath as she did so.

Freedom! she thought. A chance of freedom at last.

She reread the letter and her eyes rested on that phrase “dispatch the Usurping Competitor.” She knew what that meant, and she heartily wished it had not been included. And yet . . . Elizabeth had kept her in prison for all these years. Should she be anxious on her account?

Why, thought Mary, once I am free I will never allow them to do this deed. I will demand my rights and nothing more. I do not seek to be Queen of England. I only wish to regain my own crown, to be with my son again, to bring him up as my heir.

“Your Majesty will answer this letter?” asked Curle.

She nodded.

“Send for Jacques Nau,” she said.

Jacques came sullenly into her presence, seeing that Curle was already with her.

“Ah, Jacques,” said Mary, “I have received a letter which I must answer. You will take my notes and then Gilbert will put them into English and into cipher.”

This was the usual custom, for Mary thought in French and Jacques took notes and composed her letters, then handing them to Gilbert for translation into English, for although Jacques spoke English well and Curle French, Mary preferred to use them in this way to ensure greater accuracy.

“It is a letter to an Anthony Babington,” said Mary to Jacques. “You had better read what he says.”

Jacques read the letter and turned pale as he did so.

“Well, Jacques?” asked Mary.

“Your Majesty should not answer this letter.”

“Why not?”

“To do so would put Your Majesty in the utmost danger.”

“Gilbert, what do you think?” asked Mary.

“I agree with Jacques, Your Majesty.”

Mary did not speak for some time, but she had clearly abandoned her intention to answer immediately.

“I will think about it,” she said.

A NEWCOMER HAD APPEARED at Chartley. This was Thomas Phillipps who, when he arrived, asked to be taken at once to Sir Amyas Paulet.

Paulet rose with difficulty to greet his guest who was a somewhat unprepossessing man of about thirty; he was short and very thin; his beard and hair were yellow, but he peered shortsightedly out of dark eyes and his skin was hideously pockmarked.

“We could not be overheard?” Phillipps asked.

“That is impossible,” Paulet assured him.

“That is well. I come on the business of Secretary Walsingham.”

“He is pleased with the work we are doing here at Chartley, I trust.”

“He is indeed. But we are reaching the climax. An important letter has been delivered to the Queen, and we are eagerly awaiting her reply.”

“If it is what you wish, she will be entirely incriminated?”

Phillipps nodded.

“And if not . . . I suppose we shall go on with our little comedy of the beer barrels?”

“It will be what we wish. It has to be.”

“I see you have instructions from the Secretary.”

“Very definite instructions. As soon as the letter is in your hands it must be passed to me here. For that reason I have come here. This is the most important letter of all. It is not safe to trust it to any messenger. It must come straight from the box to me, that I may decipher it and myself deliver it into the hands of my master.”

“Your presence in the castle will not go unnoticed.”

Phillipps waved his hands. “Let some rumor be circulated. You are not well. You have asked for help in your task, and I have come to relieve you. That is as good a tale as any.”

“It shall be done,” answered Paulet.

“JANE . . . ELIZABETH,” said Mary, “who is the pockmarked man?”

Jane did not know, but Elizabeth answered: “His name is Thomas Phillipps, Your Majesty. He is here to relieve Paulet of some of his duties.”

“I do not much like him.”

“Nor I,” put in Jane.

“I saw him yesterday when I rode out in my coach for a little breath of air. He was riding toward the castle. He saluted me. I did not like his sly eyes, which peered at me so oddly. I felt almost glad that I was surrounded by guards. That was an odd feeling to have for a stranger.”

“I hope he is not going to replace Paulet,” said Elizabeth.

“I had thought I disliked him as much as I could dislike any jailor. Yet I think that I would rather have Paulet than this pockmarked Phillipps.”

“Let us not concern ourselves with him, Your Majesty,” Jane said. “It may be that he will soon be gone.”

“Yes, there are other matters with which to concern ourselves,” Mary agreed.

There was Babington’s letter. If she did not answer it, would that mean the loss of another chance to escape?

I have let too many chances pass by, she told herself. If I had been bolder I might not be a prisoner now.

But for that one sentence . . . . But if she were restored to the throne, if she were free and able to command, she would tell them that she forbade them to allow any harm to come to Elizabeth. She would say: It may be that she is a bastard, but the people of England have accepted her as their Queen, and she is indeed the daughter of Henry VIII.

She would answer the letter.

She sent for Jacques and told him to take notes. He looked at her with those dark eyes of his which had once been so affectionate and now were often reproachful. At this moment they were fearful.

Never mind. She was the one who must make decisions.

“Trusty and well beloved,” she began.

And Jacques took up his pen and wrote.

She wanted to know what forces they could raise, what captains they would appoint; what towns were to receive help from France, Spain and the Low Countries; at what spot the main forces were to be assembled; what money and armor they would ask for; and by what means had they arranged her escape. She begged Babington to be wary of all those surrounding him, for it might be that some who called themselves friends were in truth his enemies.

She put forward three methods by which she might escape from her prison. Firstly she might take the air on horseback to a lonely moor between Chartley and Stafford; if, say, fifty or sixty men well armed could meet her there, they could take her from her guards, for often there would be only eighteen or twenty of these with her and they would only be armed with pistols. Secondly, friends might come silently to Chartley at midnight, set fire to the barns, stables and outbuildings which were near the house and, while this was being extinguished, it would be possible, with the help of her trustworthy servants, to rescue her. Thirdly, her rescuers might come with the carters who came to Chartley in the early morning. Disguised they could pass into the castle, upsetting some of the carts under the great gateway to prevent its being closed, while they took possession of the house and brought her out of it to where armed supporters could be waiting half a mile or so away.

She ended with the words:

God Almighty have you in protection.

Your most assured friend forever.

Fail not to burn this quickly.

Mary sat back watching the two secretaries at work. Immersed in the task, they forgot the danger, and Mary felt alive again.

“This cannot fail. This cannot fail,” she whispered. “Soon now I shall be free.”

It was difficult to wait patiently for the brewer to come for the empty barrels. What joy when at last he came, when the box was put into place and the letter sent on its way.

PAULET BROUGHT THE LETTER to Phillipps.